


they write songs about this (about galaxies in your eyes)

by alesford



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - No Curse, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ex-Military Doc Holliday, Ex-Military Nicole Haught, Ex-Military Xavier Dolls, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Meet-Cute, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romantic Fluff, band au, it's a soulmate fic if you squint hard enough, okay maybe not THAT hard, rated for language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-06-13 21:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15373356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alesford/pseuds/alesford
Summary: “‘Nonna! I told you that I didn’t want to go to this stupid concert.”They hadn’t listened to her, of course. She said she only wanted a calm night at the homestead to finish reading the biography of Doc Holliday that she borrowed from the library. But no — they had to drag her out of the house to some dumb, disgusting, divey dive bar becauseBlack Badge Divisionwas playing within driving distance.ORThe band AU that nobody (except teamsera) asked for.





	1. i've got this friend

**Author's Note:**

> There's a band and there's music, and I am neither a lyricist nor a composer so I apologize in advance.
> 
> Also, the band is based off of the sorts of folky folks that I like and listen to because I am hipster trash. 
> 
> Hashtag sorry not sorry. Let me poke ironic fun at myself.

 

 _i've got this friend_  
_i don't think you know her_  
_she sings a simple song_  
_it sounds a lot like his_  
_\- "i've got this friend" by the civil wars_

 

 

The bar is dark and dingy. The floor is sticky and littered with peanuts crushed beneath the soles of cowboy boots and steel-toed work shoes. The smell of cigarette smoke has seeped so deeply into the dusky woods that make up the tables and the chairs and the paneling of the walls. Pitchers of Natty Light and Pabst Blue Ribbon for only four dollars on Fridays. Rail liquors for only one between four and ten o’clock.

It’s everything that one would expect of a shitty dive on the outskirts of Calgary.

 

Waverly hates it.

 

“‘Nonna! I told you that I didn’t want to go to this stupid concert.”

She spends enough time around drunken ranch hands, rodeo clowns, and small-minded rednecks at her aunt’s bar. Occasionally they get the random passerby who thinks it’s novel to drink where Wyatt Earp drank. Even if it is a lie concocted as a tourist trap.

 

(Wyatt Earp didn’t drink. He preferred ice cream. It’s a fact that Waverly discovered when researching her family’s ancestry.)

 

Sometimes folks come into Shorty’s wanting to experience the “quaint, small town, country ambiance”.

Pretentious city-slickers.

Them plus the normal, rowdy citizens of Purgatory inclines her _against_ spending her leisure time in bars like this one, regardless of the locale, and if she’s this close to the city, she would far rather go to the symphony or a jazz club instead of listening to more Mumford and Sons wannabes.

Acoustic, indie folk or whatever they call it is depressing and angling to be the next big thing that hipsters love to hate and hate to love.

Waverly hates it. She just plain, old hates it. Simple as that.

Which is why she was madder than a wasp when Wynonna showed up in her bedroom with Rosita in tow and started emptying her closet onto the bed. One thing after another. Dresses, skirts, jeans. All with a running commentary about her 90’s fashion sense.

“What the hell, Wynonna!” she snapped.

Rosita, her traitorous colleague, dug through her collection of shoes, ignoring her like her sister was doing.

“Oh, get those cute zip-up boots, Rosie.”

Wynonna tossed a pair of black, cut-off denim shorts onto the ever-growing pile of clothes.

“Damn it, you two. I don’t want to go to some stupid country concert at a shitty bar just so you can ogle some John Paul White knock-off.”

“Put those on, Waves,” Wynonna instructed her, still ignoring her sister’s protests. She waved a hand in the direction of the shorts she had tossed onto the bed.

“And these,” Rosita added, emerging from the bowels of the closet with a pair of brown leather, zip-up ankle boots. “Green shirt?”

“White cardigan, yeah.”

They hadn’t listened to her, of course. She said she only wanted a calm night at the homestead to finish reading the biography of Doc Holliday that she borrowed from the library. But no — they had to drag her out of the house to some dumb, disgusting, divey dive bar because _Black Badge Division_ was playing within driving distance.

“I swear, Wynonna. If one sleazy cowboy calls me ‘baby’, I’m kicking him in the nuts and driving home. You and Rosita can hitchhike back, for all I care,” Waverly huffs. “I can’t believe we had to queue to get inside this hovel.”

She grimaces when the heel of her boot catches on something tacky on the floor.

“Lighten up, Waves, will ya?” Wynonna gripes, shouldering past a group of college-aged kids in designer jeans and ironic tees from Urban Outfitters until she can steal the four-top table they were trying to grab. They glare at her while holding their cans of Cariboo _Genuine_. She shrugs and gives them a look that says, _You snooze, you lose, losers._

Waverly shakes her head and slides into one of the empty chairs, watching as Rosita flirts at the bar with a musclehead in a Canadian flag tank. She brushes her fingers down his bicep, smirking as she leans against the counter with her hip popped towards him. Her chin hitches in their direction and the guy doesn’t even spare a look. He motions at the younger of the two bartenders, holding up four fingers. Rosita grins wildly when four bottles of Moosehead are placed on the countertop in front of them.

Wynonna snorts, drawing Waverly’s attention. “Disappointed bro tank in three… two… one.”

Waverly returns her gaze to the bar just in time to watch blockhead’s face fall. Rosita grabs three of the bottles off the bar and saunters towards them, leaving behind tall, dazed, and confused. “Three beers, courtesy of Mark,” she announces, depositing them onto the table.

“Did you at least let him down easy?” Wynonna asks, reaching for one of the bottles and clinking it against the one that Rosita has taken up in her hand.

“I told him that he was sweet but that I’m in a long-term relationship with a guy named Jack.”

“Daniels?” Waverly asks with a quirk of an eyebrow. She snags the last bottle and takes a swig of beer.

Rosita grins and raises her bottle to that. “You know it. Jack Daniels all the way.”

 

-

 

The first two bands aren’t great. They remind Waverly why she doesn’t like honky tonk country music that’s all gross swagger and hypermasculinity. The second group doesn’t even sing an original song, sticking mostly to Brad Paisley covers with winning lyrics like, _‘With all of these men lining up to get neutered, it's hip now to be feminized. I don't highlight my hair, I've still got a pair. Yeah, honey, I’m still a guy.’_

Honestly, Waverly stops listening to the bands on stage as soon as that gem of a verse registers in her brain. Even Rosita seems kind of done with it all, thumbing through some app on her phone and swiping left and right with the bright glow of the screen lighting up her face with a blue tint. Wynonna, of course, is having a Wynonna sort of night that entails hustling some guys already too piss drunk to stand let alone shoot pool.

Waverly sighs. “Why did we have to get here at nine if the band we’re here to see doesn’t even play until after eleven?” she complains. Rosita doesn’t look up from her phone but she does give a half shrug.

“Wynonna wanted to get a table front and center since it’s ‘prime real estate for appreciating certain attributes’,” she says, swiping her thumb left across the screen four times in a row. “Beats hanging out at Shorty’s on our night off, anyways.”

Sure. Maybe it is better than spending her Thursday night at the bar beneath her sometimes-apartment where she also happens to work at least five days a week. But it’s definitely not better than curling up under her favorite blankets with an old book and a mug of herbal tea.

“I don’t understand why you two had to drag me out here with you,” she grumbles, splitting the last of their second pitcher of beer between her glass and Rosita’s, leaving them less than half-filled.

Rosita clicks the button on the side of her phone and the screen goes dark. She turns her attention fully to Waverly, leaning closer so she doesn’t have to shout as loud to be heard. “We dragged you out here because Wynonna and I both know that you would be hiding away with a book and some gross tea with a hippy-sounding name instead of making the most out of your twenties. You’re twenty-two, Waves. Live a little.”

She goes back to her phone and Waverly resigns herself to at least another two hours in the bar. She takes to people watching, trying to keep herself distracted until her sister’s silly man-crush has played his music and they can finally go home.

Just because she’s here doesn’t mean that she has to enjoy it. Because she’s not.

 

Waverly hates it.

 

The venue is crowded enough that there aren’t any distinct pockets of people mingling. There’s some dancing nearer to the pool tables. Idiots like her sister hustling other idiots out of their money. A clique of girls around Waverly’s age crowding the counter and trying to woo their way to free drinks like Rosita had done earlier with a seamless performance.

Nobody notices the smaller man attempting to elbow his way through the crowd to catch one of the bartenders’ attention. Every time he makes headway or the throngs part just a little, he gets shoved backwards and has to start all over again. He’s persistent, even though Waverly can tell he’s getting flustered and frustrated. Waverly sees him, and she feels a pang of sympathy for him, not to mention empathy as a fellow shorter person.

She chugs the rest of whatever crappy pilsner made up their last pitcher and motions towards the bar. “Gonna get more to drink,” she tells Rosita, who gives her an ambivalent thumbs up.

The guy is on his fourth try at breaking through the wall of bodies when Waverly taps his shoulder. “Here,” she says softly but still loud enough for him to hear over the music and the crowd. She may be small, but she’s an Earp and a force to be reckoned with if she has anything to say about it. She firmly grips the guy’s upper arm with her right hand and forces two frat-looking boys out of the way with a well-placed shoulder shove and elbow jab. She pulls the stranger right along with her to the bar and immediately catches the attention of one of the bartenders. “Go ahead and order,” she tells him.

He looks at her as if he’s still not quite sure what just happened.

“What d’ya need?” the barman asks, wiping his hands on the towel hanging out of the back pocket of his Levi’s. He’s gruffer than Waverly expected and he stares at the two of them impatiently.

The guy beside her blinks rapidly before shaking his head and beaming a toothy smile. “Right, right!” he says, and it’s refreshingly enthusiastic. “Can I get a bourbon, a Coors, and a ginger beer, please? Put it under Dolls’ tab!” The bartender is already grabbing a shot glass and filling it with the nearest bottle of rail bourbon with an amount that’s way more than a standard pour. He slides that across the bar first before reaching into one of the fridges under the back counter, grabbing the other two drinks and popping the caps off of them in two smooth moves. “Thanks!” her stranger says, once to the bartender again and then to her before he disappears back into the herd of bodies.

“And for you, sweetheart?”

Waverly’s jaw clenches at the moniker and she forces herself to bite her tongue. “Vodka soda with lime and a pitcher of Molson. Put it under Waverly Earp,” she tells him in her _no-nonsense, I’m tired of your shit in my bar_ voice. He nods and fills a glass with ice, soda water, and vodka but he has to wander toward the other end of the bar to get a lime.

“Saw what you did for that guy earlier.” Waverly jumps when warm breath meets the shell of her ear, and she turns to see a grinning redhead beside her. “That was nice of you,” she says, and the smile doesn’t disappear from her face. It’s friendly and confident and maybe just the right amount of cocky. Waverly can’t decide if the white stetson in her hand adds to or detracts from her image.

 _Adds to_ , she thinks.

She surprises herself by giving an actual answer instead of a non-committal shrug. “Yeah, well, most of the people in this dive seem like assholes,” she carps and it comes out a lot sharper than she intended.

The woman isn’t put off by the bark of her tone. “Yeah,” she agrees, surprising Waverly. “The people who come to these bars and these shows can be kind of hit or miss. Sometimes they’re great and other times they’re… well, not.”

“I think maybe you’ve just been going to too many shitty bars,” she finds herself saying, dragging out the encounter even though she’s been delivered her vodka soda and pitcher of beer.

“Probably,” the woman says with a shrug. “Know of any non-shitty bars I should patron instead?” She catches the bartender’s attention and orders a gin and tonic before he can help the rowdy bunch halfway down the bar.

And Waverly isn’t quite sure what to do with that, since she isn’t usually one to tell strangers where she works, even if they are pretty girls with warm eyes the color of dark honey. Something about this stranger, though, this woman with her grin and her eyes and her dimples—

“There’s a bar called Shorty’s in Purgatory. That’s a town. The town where I live,” she rambles. “It’s not really close to here, though.”

There’s a twinkle in the woman’s eyes and her flirtatious grin shifts into something more amused. “It’s non-shitty, though?” she asks.

“My aunt owns it. Well, co-owns it. I work there. I mean, not that me working there makes it not shitty. But it’s okay. I like it. It’s kind of the only real bar in town? Wyatt Earp drank there!” She squeezes her eyes shut, embarrassed beyond belief. She knows that she’s being teased and that this woman is definitely… something. Especially since Waverly feels like a blubbering, babbling buffoon who just can’t seem to stop her traitor of a mouth.

“Wyatt Earp, huh? Maybe I’ll have to check it out sometime.” The woman reaches over the counter and snags a bar napkin from a holder, producing a pen from her… waistcoat?

Waverly can’t help but gawk in appreciation at the woman’s outfit that she’s only just now noticed. The pen came from the breast pocket of her denim oxford, not the brown suede vest she wears over it. Her sleeves are rolled snug past her elbows and she’s got black skinny jeans on that taper off into a pair of brown leather boots.

“If you aren’t working next weekend, how about I buy you a drink at the non-shitty bar where Wyatt Earp drank?” She slides the napkin over, a phone number scribbled on it in blue ink.

“Uh, yeah… I’d love to. I mean, I’d like to. I’d like that.”

She grins again, and Waverly would swear her heart skipped a beat. “I’ll hold you to that, Waverly Earp.” She steps away from the bar, drink in one hand and her hat in the other. “I mean it,” the stranger drawls, settling the stetson atop her head.

“Hey, I didn’t get your name!” Waverly calls out, already folding the napkin to fit it into her pocket.

The woman taps the brim of her hat as she wades into the crowd. “I’ll tell you in a second,” she shouts back.

A little confused and disheartened — a beautiful woman didn’t give her a fake number after flirting with her, did she? — she takes her drink and the fresh pitcher back to the table where Wynonna is waving a stack of bills in front of Rosita’s face.

“How much did you take ‘em for?” Rosita asks, taking the pitcher from Waverly and refilling all of their glasses.

“One hundred bucks,” Wynonna says proudly, and she throws back a shot of whiskey that she somehow also walked away with from the pool table.

 

Leave it to an Earp to swindle cash and a drink.

 

“And just in time for BBD,” she adds.

On stage is the guy that Waverly helped at the bar. He’s fidgeting with the amps and then futzing with some other cords that might be lines out of the microphone or something else entirely. Even then, there isn’t as much on the stage as there was for the previous two bands — only two guitars and the two microphones. Plus the two reusable water bottles that he leaves on the stage, one by each of the mic stands.

Waverly isn’t sure what she expects from the indie folk duo that caught her sister’s eye. In part because Wynonna has never shown a lick of interest in any music that isn’t some form of rock and roll in her entire life.

Their daddy almost always had some sort of classic rock playing in the house or in the truck. Willa told her it was so he never had to hear her talk or cry, but Wynonna said their daddy just liked to drown out his demons with noise — and booze when that didn’t work. His music kept him from hearing the screen door slam when their mama walked out the door for the last time, too.

It’s why Waverly prefers classical music to rock. Anything to rock, really. It’s also why Wynonna leans heavy on rock’n’roll and alcohol.

What Waverly doesn’t expect is the pretty redhead from earlier and a man with his own cowboy hat, crisp, white button-up, black waistcoat, and tailored navy trousers. He’s got the boots to match, too.

“What is that on his _face_?" Rosita snorts. Her eyes home in on the bushy _thing_ occupying the man’s upper lip.

Wynonna shoots her a look. “It’s a mustache!”

“Since when are you into that much facial hair, ‘Nonna?” Waverly asks, but she can’t tear her gaze away from the woman who’s caught _her_ eye and is currently smirking at her from the stage.

“Since I heard him sing and play the guitar, duh.”

Any conversation is cut off as soon as the woman taps the mic and says, “Hey, guys.” The crowd cheers because this is why they came to this bar tonight. They’re the reason why Wynonna wanted to drive to this specific dive on this particular Thursday night.

“I’m Nicole Haught and this is my partner, John Henry Holliday.”

Nicole winks at Waverly. An, _I told you I’d tell you my name._

Somebody screams, “Doc!” while another person yells, “You’re so hot, Haught!” Waverly also thinks she hears something that sounds a lot like, _“Docstache!”_

“And we’re Black Badge Division.”

Their instruments in hand, they start into the first song of their set. It’s vaguely familiar; she knows she’s heard it on the radio before but she’s never paid much attention to this genre of music.

Stupid Lumineers and poser Ray LaMontagnes.

She picks up the beat and the toe of her boot taps against the disgusting wood floor of its own volition. It’s melancholically catchy, which is one of the oddest ways she has ever described a song. Though maybe it’s because she doesn’t listen to too much country in the first place.

When the first song comes to a close, John Henry smiles into the microphone and doffs the hat on his head. “We thank you for coming out tonight to listen to some fine music,” he says, lifting his glass of amber liquid into the air. “I would like to raise a toast to this establishment for inviting us here. It is one of our favorites.”

The audience cheers and takes a collective sip of whatever they’re imbibing when John Henry tips the glass against his lips.

“We are in the presence of some lovely company today. My partner in crime, of course—” He tilts his drink in Nicole’s direction and she holds up her gin and tonic with a smile. “ —and Xavier Dolls and Jeremy Chetri, without whom we would not be here.” John Henry gestures to the two men at the side of the stage, including the man from the bar. “But most important, if I may say so myself, is all of you, our first-rate fans. Here’s to you.”

She thinks she can hear Nicole’s microphone pick up her loud, “Salud!” She picks up her own vodka soda and finds the singer grinning at her before throwing back the rest of her drink. Waverly smiles back from across the crowded bar and takes a delicate sip of her own.

 

The music starts again.

 

 


	2. distant star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the second time of the night, Waverly startles because a confident redhead in a stetson decides to sneak up on her.

 

 _well, a goodbye never seems finished_  
_just like these songs that I write_  
_they hang aloft like stars in the night_  
_but there's nothing there but the illusion of a light_  
_and you, you could've been mine_  
_\- "distant star" by first aid kit_

 

 

Black Badge Division plays for forty-five minutes before taking a break. House music pumps out through the bar’s speakers as soon as the duo steps away from the stage.

“I take back any doubts I had about coming here tonight, Earp,” Rosita says, lifting her glass towards the older woman. “BBD is definitely worth the drive.”

“Told you so,” Wynonna says, though her eyes are still focused on John Henry, who’s conversing with the two men of their party.

“How long have you actually been listening to their music?” Waverly inquires as she sips at her own glass of Molson, hiding her grimace at the foul excuse for a beer. It’s cheap and that’s all that really matters.

“Uh. Two weeks? I found a YouTube video of one of their shows in Toronto from like last year. Let me tell ya, those videos don’t do justice for Holliday’s _ass_ ets.”

She makes finger guns. Actual finger guns. With a wink and a click of her tongue.

Waverly rolls her eyes.

“And I actually kinda like the music, too. It’s no Led Zep but it’s solid.”

“It’s all right, I guess,” Waverly says with a shrug.

“Only ‘all right’?”

For the second time of the night, she startles because a confident redhead in a stetson decides to sneak up on her. Rosita and Wynonna both turn their attention from the stage area to the woman standing just behind Waverly.

“Would you rather I throw potatoes at you?” she asks once she sees Nicole.

The singer frowns. “Tomatoes, not potatoes.”

“Potato, tomato,” Waverly responds more cheerfully than necessary. A running joke that nobody outside her family really understands, so only Wynonna snickers when she hears it. Nicole, to her credit, only allows the confusion to show for a second before recovering.

“And if I brought you another drink from the bar? Would that entice an upgrade to ‘totally awesome’?” Nicole holds out a full rocks glass with a lime wedge hooked on the rim. “Vodka soda, right?”

Wynonna whistles. “If singing your praises means free drinks, count me in. I volunteer as tribute.”

“And me,” Rosita jumps in.

 

If Waverly keeps rolling her eyes this much, they’re going to get stuck in an entirely unflattering way, she swears.

 

“Don’t mind them,” she tells Nicole. “That’s just my sister, Wynonna, and our friend, Rosita. She works at Shorty’s with me.”

Nicole grins, looking between the other two women. “Did all of Purgatory come out with you tonight?”

“Just its prettiest citizens,” Wynonna answers.

“Well, I have a drink for the prettiest of the prettiest,” Nicole says smoothly, eyes locking with Waverly’s. “Regardless if she thinks BBD is awesome or not.”

Waverly can’t help but blush as she accepts the proffered drink with a shy smile. “Thanks.”

Their fingers brush and the bar around them seems to melt away until it’s only the two of them, exchanging soft smiles and meaningful looks. Like a clichéd romcom meet-cute. With heart eyes and everything.

The moment is broken by a dramatic gasp from Wynonna. “Haught, I’m hurt! I’m definitely the sexiest woman in town.” Rosita snorts and has to turn away from the scene lest she burst out laughing in a thoroughly inappropriate manner. Wynonna glares daggers at the back of her head, missing John Henry’s approach to the table.

“Nic, you ready to start again?” he mumbles around the cigarette cosseted between his lips.

“Why hello, cowboy,” Wynonna all but purrs under her breath. She yelps when Waverly’s booted foot connects with her shin.

“Yeah. One second, Doc,” Nicole says, holding up a finger. She looks at Waverly with that kind smile again, the one without pretense or cocky swagger. “Stick around after our set?” She asks it hopefully and in a way that Waverly doesn’t want to do anything besides smile back and whisper, _Of course_.

So she does just that and earns a friendly squeeze on the shoulder as Nicole makes her way back to the stage where John Henry is already strapping himself in with his guitar and a harmonica neckholder.

The second half of their set builds like a crescendo into a fast-paced bluegrass sounding sort of song with both Nicole and John Henry strumming at their guitars while the redhead sings and the cowboy growls out another layer on his harmonica. It gets people up and moving, including Rosita, Wynonna, and Waverly who dance around their table, all the while chasing off assholes that would dare to steal it from them.

Waverly actually likes it.

It’s fun and energetic and the lyrics that Nicole sings are about autumn sunshine and summer love and a thunderstorm kind of hearts a-poundin’. It fades directly into the next song and then the next. The last song, however, starts as bright and spirited but evens out into something slow and quiet like a tender farewell.

 

_“And I loved you… I loved you. Through dusk ‘til dawn, with everything I am, I loved you. Through dusk ‘til dawn, with these memories of love bygone, I loved you.”_

 

Nicole and John Henry harmonize in a way that gives Waverly shivers down her spine. It’s a beautiful and rich sound that somehow encapsulates everything that she believes love to be. It’s breathtaking, and she understands why this duo works and why so many people clamor to see them in these crappy little venues that they seem to prefer.

 

There’s something about the music.

 

Waverly thinks she loves it.

 

Rosita and Wynonna are just as captivated. The whole damn bar is, and once the final chord fades away, the crowd begins a raucous applause. On stage, Nicole is laughing and John Henry wraps an arm around her shoulders as he lifts his hat off his head with his free hand and gives them all a toothy grin. Nicole doffs her own stetson and leans back toward one of the microphones, shouting into it, “Thanks for coming out tonight! We are Black Badge Division!”

The crowd loses it again and they only begin to settle down once the two performers begin breaking down their equipment with Jeremy and Xavier.

Rosita yawns and it makes Waverly yawn, too, even though she’s far from tired after listening to that performance. The air feels electric and everytime she catches a glimpse of red hair and brown eyes and adorable dimples, her skin alights and she can’t help but smile a hundred-watt smile. She’s awake and alert, even if the retro Coca-Cola clock with green neon lights reads some time after one in the morning.

“So, you think your girlfriend could introduce me to Doc?” Wynonna asks as patrons begin to close out their tabs and filter from the bar.

“We’re not dating,” Waverly says, though as soon as the words leave her mouth, she thinks that it doesn’t sound like the worst idea. Dating Nicole Haught. “And who’s Doc? John Henry?” Her brow crinkles as the connection dawns on her. “John Henry Holliday — like Doc Holliday? Were his parents Earpers or something?”

Wynonna shrugs. “Hell if I know.”

Rosita yawns again. “Earps, do you think we could hurry up whatever you guys are trying to accomplish tonight? I’ve gotta be at Shorty’s in like ten hours.”

“Sorry, Rosie,” Waverly apologizes. “We can go.”

Nicole is completely engrossed in a conversation with John Henry and a few fans, and Waverly knows that she doesn’t want to interrupt and take away from people who actually knew about BBD before tonight. It’s late, too, and Rosita is right; all of them have work to do tomorrow.

“But what about—” Wynonna begins to object, but Waverly loops her arm through her sisters and tugs her along with Rosita just behind them.

“Wy,” she murmurs into her sister’s ear as they trek back out into the night. “They’re hotshot, touring musicians. Do you really think they have any time for two small town girls from Purgatory? There’s a whole world out there, ‘Nonna.”

Waverly thinks about living in Purgatory for her whole damn life. She thinks about the same main stretch of road that leads in and out of town and how she’s never taken it farther than just east of Calgary. She thinks of the same old people doing the same old things, day in and day out. She thinks, _There’s an entire world out there and I haven’t seen any of it._

Wynonna hears it in her tone and pulls her baby sister even closer as they make their way to Wynonna’s truck. “Waverly Earp, anybody would be lucky to have even a second of your time. You’re the goddamn best of us, do you hear me?” she whispers back with fierce conviction. “ _She’s_ the lucky one, earning one of those smiles of yours.”

“Thanks, Wynonna,” she mumbles back. “You’re wrong, though. You’re the best of all of us. Looking out for me even when you weren’t here.”

Wynonna accepts the compliment with all the grace of an Earp, which is to say, only an awkward, marginal amount better than none.

“Yeah, whatever, baby girl. Let’s go home.”

Rosita falls asleep on the drive back to Purgatory, so they drop her off at Shorty’s with Waverly’s key to the apartment upstairs. She bids them farewell with a sleep slurred, “Drive safe, Earps.”

“Thanks for making me come out tonight,” Waverly says once it’s the two of them and the quiet drive back to the homestead. “I had fun tonight.”

“You deserve to get out of town, Waves. Have some fun.”

“Even if it’s at a dive bar in some podunk town only an hour away?” she asks.

Wynonna soared a glance from the road to look at her baby sister. “Even then,” she says.

Silence settles between them again and holds until they take the turn onto the dirt and gravel road that will take them up to the house.

“You should call her.”

“How’d you know she gave me her number?”

“I’m a P.I., Waves. I see things.”

“I’m way out of my league with her. Besides, she probably was nice to me because I helped out her friend at the bar.”

“Hey, give yourself a little more credit than that, huh? And me.” Wynonna kills the ignition after she pulls up beside Waverly’s red Jeep and throws the truck into park. “You turned some heads tonight, baby girl. Rosie and I picked out your outfit, but keeping Haughtstuff’s attention? That’s all you.”

Waverly gives her sister a half-shrug, still not quite ready to believe that somebody like that would be interested in her. “I don’t know, Wy. Maybe I’ll call her. I’ll at least follow BBD on Spotify.”

Wynonna reaches across the console and lightly punches Waverly in the shoulder. “Attagirl. You deserve all the love, Waves. I mean it.”

 

 


	3. where you are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t call Nicole. She doesn’t text either. Waverly has done everything she can to stop thinking about the other woman, but the universe seems keen to refuse her that possibility.
> 
> It’s the damned romcom cliché that her life has become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to go ahead and share this with you all, though you must also know that this is the last chapter that I already have written. I'm not quite sure when I'll have more to share with you, but I promise I won't leave this as a work in progress forever. I have an idea of where the song ends; we just need to get there first and enjoy the in-between.
> 
> Thank you for your kind comments and kudos, and thank you for reading.

 

_i've been high, I've been low, I've been everywhere a soul can go_   
_i've seen the Northern Lights and heaven too_   
_but I ain't ever seen anything like you_   
_if you ever need somebody down the road_   
_you should know_   
_\- "where you are" by tenille townes_

 

 

She doesn’t call Nicole. She doesn’t text either. Waverly has done everything she can to stop thinking about the other woman, but the universe seems keen to refuse her that possibility.

 

It’s the damned romcom cliché that her life has become.

 

People she knew in high school post pictures on social media because apparently they weren’t the only Purgatorians at the bar that night. Her sister brings up _Doc_ incessantly for the next week, even though Waverly thinks it’s to annoy her into calling Nicole. To top it off, any time the radio in the Jeep comes to life, there’s inevitably a BBD song finishing or queueing up.

She can’t escape it.

Even two weeks later.

The bar is a dive, but it’s neither dark nor dingy. It has the feel of an old western saloon with an old wooden bar top that’s seen better days but remains sturdy and reliable nonetheless. The floor is free from unnamed sticky substances and there’s no beer spilled on every surface, not yet at least, since they haven’t even opened for the day. Plus, there’s the sign — the one that reads, _Drink where Wyatt Earp drank._

Waverly has half a mind to tear it off the wall, but Gus is right when she says it brings in business. Earpers that are beside themselves when they learn she’s his great-great-granddaughter. They almost always offer to buy her a drink after they learn that tidbit of information. Of course, they’re also almost always men twice her age putting on fake southern accents and wearing brand new jeans that are still as stiff as the day they bought them.

At least they can pay their tabs at the end of the night.

Unlike one of her patrons last night. Goddamn Champ motherfudgin’ Hardy.

She’s distracted by her frustration as she wipes down the taps, knocking the one that’s always been finicky (read: broken). The one to which she had started hooking up the bar’s one craft beer, since that meant it rarely got any use, which in turn meant that she could generally avoid getting sprayed with beer.

Because now her shirt is soaked and what a stupid, shitty day to hear the door open even though the bar is obviously closed. She grabs a nearby towel and tries valiantly to dry herself off.

“You didn’t tell me Shorty’s had wet t-shirt competitions.”

Waverly’s eyes snap to the bar’s entrance because she knows that voice.

“You okay?” Nicole asks, hiding the chuckle in her voice as best she can.

“Yeah, yeah,” she answers quickly, trying to hide the fact that she’s most definitely tracking the redhead’s swagger towards her. “I, uh, just a bit jumpy. Had a crazy night.” She stops trying to dab at her shirt and drops her hands on the bar instead.

It was a crazy night. The York brothers and a Champ decided a drinking contest was a good idea with the loser paying for all the drinks. They each did three shots of whiskey first and then shotgunned beer after beer after beer.

It was worse than Wynonna in her worst bender and it made Waverly want to puke just watching it.

Pete and Kyle ended up brawling in the floor and Champ had split when he realized he couldn’t cover the tab. The Sheriff picked up the York boys and one of his deputies found Champ. All three are probably still nursing hangovers in the drunk tank at the station.

Yeah, a crazy night and now _this._

Nicole Haught with her dimples and her charm and the sure way that she says, “Sorry I wasn’t here to see it.” The air of confidence matches the black leather moto jacket she has on over a heather gray tee, and she’s wearing the same black skinny jeans and boots as the night of the concert. She runs a hand through her hair and her comportment shifts.

“You didn’t call,” she says softly.

“I didn’t think you actually wanted me to,” Waverly answers honestly. “I mean, you’re this absurdly popular musician and I’m just a small town bartender.”

Nicole leans across the bar and reaches for one of Waverly’s hands. It’s a comforting gesture that she probably wouldn’t accept from a stranger she’s only ever really seen on stage. It feels right, though. Clichéd as it may sound, they fit together perfectly and they both seem ready to melt at the contact.

Despite the squish of beer-wet palms.

“Oh god, I’m sopping wet.” She pulls her hand away, embarrassed that she’s still drenched in beer. “I keep telling Shorty that he needs to fix the darn taps,” she says with a sigh and a hand-wave at said problematic tap. “Would you mind, just, uh…” She mimes covering her eyes with her hands and hopes that she doesn’t come off as awkward as she feels.

“Oh, right!” Nicole turns her back to the bar, tapping her fingers on her thigh.

Waverly grips the bottom hem of her shirt and goes to pull it over her head. Of course, she realizes three things at once. First, what the hell is she thinking, stripping in her aunt’s bar? With a gorgeous woman mere feet away! Two, what the hell is she thinking? It’s not like she has an extra shirt lying around behind the counter. And three, fudgenuggets! Her shirt has caught awkwardly around her band holding her hair away from her face and she’s definitely, mortifyingly stuck.

“Oh! Oh, crap! Um. Uh, uh, Nicole. I'm stuck. Could you please..."

“Oh, yeah!” Nicole rounds the bar and then her hands are deftly tugging Waverly’s shirt free, a sweet, “I got you,” on her lips. She passes over the beer soaked shirt and her eyes dip for the briefest second over Waverly’s form before meeting her eyes once more.

 

It’s a goddamn romcom.

 

Waverly doesn’t really care to complain in this moment.

Nicole is standing right in front of her, and she’s looking at Waverly like she could find the universe in her eyes.

“I think they write songs about this,” she breathes, and maybe it’s music that she hears and sees instead of galaxies. “I could write a million songs and I’m still not sure that I could ever…” Then again, maybe music and the stars and the planets aren’t so different for somebody like Nicole.

“I thought it was just me.” Waverly holds the shirt close to her chest, feeling more exposed now than when she was stripped bare of any clothes with her stupid ex. It’s a vulnerable nakedness but she doesn’t feel unsafe. She actually feels more safe than she ever has with anybody else save for Wynonna or Gus and Curtis. Safer than she ever felt with Champ.

Nicole reaches for one of her hands, ever so gently, and brings it to rest just over her heart. Waverly can feel it _thump-thump-thumping_ as fast as her own is beating. “It isn’t just you.”

 

These are the moments inscribed in poetry, in literature, drawn and sketched with ink and paint. The sort of moments that can radically change the trajectory of one’s life for better or worse, fueled nonetheless by an indescribable passion.

 

Waverly isn’t sure that she’s ever felt so alive.

 

She wants to say something, do something, anything because her heart feels as if it could flutter out of her chest like a bird on the wing to a place of _more_ and _better_. She’s about to lean forward when the sound of heavy boots tromping across the floor reaches her ears.

“Waves! You’ll never guess who I ran into at— whoa.”

Wynonna bursts into the front of house from the kitchen, having entered the establishment through the alleyway since the front door is still supposed to be locked.

“Hi, Wynonna,” Waverly grumbles because of course the Wynonnus Interruptus curse would continue, even if it was more of a boon when she was dating that man-boy.

"In Shorty’s, Waverly? Really?” her older sister mutters.

That’s when she notices movement behind the elder Earp. “I am backing up into the kitchen… I am returning to the kitchen…”

“Doc?!” Nicole shouts in surprise when she catches a glimpse of that familiar black hat. She instinctively tries to position herself in front of Waverly to hide her lack of dress from the man she considers a brother.

“I apologize for our intrusion, Nicole. Wynonna and I will take our leave now,” he tells her, still averting his gaze like the gentleman that he is.

“No, wait!” Waverly calls out, peeking her head from around Nicole’s shoulder. “Wy, can you watch the bar for a second while I run upstairs for a clean shirt?”

Wynonna narrows her eyes, blue orbs flickering between the two of them. “No funny business.”

Nicole sputters. “I wasn’t… I don’t need to…”

Her jumbled evasion is swiftly cut off as Waverly’s hand finds her own, fingers laced and pulling her towards the back of house and up a staircase where she digs a key from her bra. She unlocks the door and slips inside, towing Nicole along with her.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “It’s kind of a mess. I haven’t been staying here much since I broke up with… well, you probably don’t care much about my ex and isn’t that dating 101 anyways? Don’t talk about past relationships?”

“Waverly, breathe,” Nicole whispers, running her hands up and down Waverly’s upper arms. “If it’s something that you want to tell me, I will happily listen.”

Waverly’s nervousness settles and she smiles shyly. Champ had never taken a liking to anything she ever brought up, and oh gosh, she really shouldn’t compare Nicole to that oaf. It would be like comparing a fried bologna sandwich to an eight course tasting menu.

One also lasts significantly less time than the other. Not that she would know. About Nicole and those sorts of things. But maybe… gosh, she thinks that she would like to know. What it’s like to be _with_ her.

“Maybe we can talk after my shift? I’m off at eight. I mean, you don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to. I’m sure you have better things to do than hang around some grungy bar when you don’t have to. There’s, um, the music shop down the street and Mama Tate runs the old fashioned diner off 18th. And—”

Nicole cuts her off, her tone mild and calming. “Hey, I’m good here unless you want me to go. I can corral Doc into exploring the charming town of Purgatory.”

“Are you two in town for long? I don’t want to monopolize your time.”

Nicole shakes her head. “We’re taking a month off and I convinced the boys to come here with me for a few days at least.”

“Oh, wow. That’s great! Really great.” She scowls when she hears Wynonna’s voice carry up the stairs with a crude comment about a quickie and fingerbanging.

“I should change,” she says. When she turns away towards the bedroom, she realizes that Nicole had never removed her hands from her arms until they’re trailing away and falling back to her sides. Waverly feels lost without the touch.

She tosses the soiled shirt into the clothes hamper and grabs her Shorty’s t-shirt from her chest of drawers, tying the fabric into a crop top that shows off her hard-earned abdominal muscles. She’s more than pleased to render Nicole speechless when she returns to the living area of the apartment.

Waverly feels confident in that moment, knowing that this beautiful woman is as drawn to her as she is to Nicole.

“Like what you see, Haught?” she asks with a playful grin.

“I like _you_ , Waverly Earp.” She reaches again for Waverly, drawn like a moth to a flame or Icarus to the sun. Waverly reaches for her, too, no less influenced by whatever forces are pulling them together in the here and now. “We should get back downstairs before your sister tries to break down the door.”

“You’re right.” Waverly sighs. “But tonight? After my shift ends?”

 

Nicole smiles at her and squeezes her hands.

 

Still a perfect fit.

 

“I’ll be here.”

Waverly knows her words to be true because she sees infinite galaxies and burning stars, too.

When they return to the bar, Wynonna drags Nicole and John Henry into the back corner booth as Waverly flips the switches to all the neon lights and properly opens Shorty’s for business.

For a Thursday evening, it’s surprisingly slow. She attributes it to the rodeo circuit that’s passing through the big city and drawing away half of their clientele. The lunch crowd had been even more sparse, though Sheriff Nedley made his usual appearance at noon and then again later for happy hour. Mingling with the townsfolk, he called it. Waverly couldn’t fault his logic; Shorty’s has always been the easiest place to hear the gossip of the town and the chatter of the ne’er-do-wells.

Nicole doesn’t leave the entire time Waverly is on shift. Eventually, Wynonna disappears with Doc but Jeremy and Xavier — Dolls, she learns — appear not long after. They order burgers and wings and split a basket of fries and a pitcher of beer. Waverly brings a Coors, a ginger beer, and a gin and tonic over to their table. “On the house,”  she says. Jeremy gives her the biggest smile and Nicole looks at her with tenderness in her eyes. Dolls is a tougher nut to crack, and he gives her a wary glance, cautious, skeptical, and undoubtedly reserved.

He comes up to the bar towards the end of her shift while she’s polishing rocks glasses with a towel. “Can I get you something else?” she asks as he leans on his elbows over the wooden counter. He’s taller than Nicole, she can tell. He’s also built like a tank if his biceps are anything to go by.

“I need you to be careful with her.”

Waverly’s expression shifts to one of confusion because surely Nicole hasn’t already told her colleagues about their earlier moment.

“She’s mentioned you everyday for the last two weeks, wondering why you hadn’t called. She barely knows you, Earp, and you barely know her and yet anybody with eyes can tell you’re already in deep.” He sighs and runs a hand over his close-cut shaved head. “I’m not one to believe in soulmates but the way you two look at each other…” He sighs again, his shoulders rising and falling with the audible exhalation. “Just be careful with her, Earp, all right? We’ve all been through enough pain to last a lifetime and then some.”

Waverly wants to snap at him. To say how dare he presume that she would be the one to hurt Nicole — that she could ever hurt the woman that’s already well on her way to claiming her heart.

 

Fucking romcom.

 

She doesn’t, though. She looks across the bar to the corner booth and finds Nicole smiling at her. She smiles in return, and she knows.

“I’m all in.”

Dolls nods and there’s a flicker of approval in his eyes before he raps the bar twice with his knuckles and walks back to Nicole and Jeremy.

 

 


	4. such great heights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight o'clock rolls around and Gus shoos Waverly out from behind the bar.
> 
> “Go on,” Gus mutters with a jerk of her chin. “Girl’s waitin’ for you.”
> 
> She doesn't need to be told twice. Not when her heart drums in her chest every time she looks across the bar and sees the woman with galaxies in her eyes and music in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the wait, folks. But I am giving you a longer chapter that is so, so soft and fluffy that, in the words of my lovely friend, I could open my own Build-A-Bear Workshop.
> 
> Thanks for those of you who have left comments, kudos, and subscribed. It nourishes my soul. I love it when you feed the authors.

 

 _and i have to speculate_  
_that god himself did make us into_  
_corresponding shapes like puzzle pieces_  
_from the clay  
_ _\- "such great heights" by iron & wine_

 

 

Eight o’clock rolls around. The bar has quieted enough for the early night lull before it picks back up again in an hour or so, and Gus shoos her away from behind the bar.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you starin’ at a certain someone the entire afternoon, Waverly. I’m old, not stupid.”

Waverly leans over the counter to press a kiss to her aunt’s cheek. “Never said you were, Gus,” she says with a smile before righting herself on the old wooden floors.

“Go on,” Gus mutters with a jerk of her chin. “Girl’s waitin’ for you.”

When Waverly turns around towards the booth where Nicole and friends had taken up residence, she spots the redhead sitting alone with the end of a pen between her teeth and a far away look in her eyes. She shifts back towards Gus. “I’m gonna run upstairs and change, okay? Let Nicole know if she starts looking for me?”

Gus hums her agreement, which is all Waverly needs to send her scampering to the apartment upstairs in order to change.

She strips away her Shorty’s shirt that smells of cheap cigarettes and stale beer, opting to keep her denim shorts and well-worn cowboy boots for the rest of the evening. The blouse that she slides her arms into is a mossy green and she takes the time to cuff the sleeves past her elbows once she’s fastened all but the top two buttons of the shirt.

A glance in the mirror gives her the thought to tug her hair free from its tie. It’s wavy and loose and slightly crimped from where the rubber band held it in place, but it isn’t so tangled or messy that a quick brush through can’t settle it.

Waverly’s down the stairs and just about through the doors to the front of house when she hears Gus’ _talkin’-to_ voice. It gives her pause and if she pushes closer to hear a bit better, well, who can blame her when the town’s already filled to the gills with gossips?

“Now Waverly and Wynonna?” she overhears. “I love ‘em as if they were my own. They don’t need city slickers like you and that mustachioed cowboy riling them up only to leave ‘em high and dry.”

“I can only speak for myself, Mrs. McCready, but I don’t intend to leave Waverly high and dry anywhere. Doc wouldn’t do that to Wynonna, either, and to be honest, ma’am, I imagine both of them have enough fire in them to see to our ends if we ever do anything to deserve it.”

“Don’t any of you hurt my girls.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs. McCready.”

“Gus. My name is Gus, and I’ll bet you twenty bucks that Waverly’s hidin’ on the other side of that door listenin’ in.”

“I’m not sure that’s a fair bet, Mrs. McCr—Gus. After all…”

Waverly is so busy listening for the smile or the frown in Nicole’s next words that she doesn’t think to hide herself before the door swings open and brings her into clear view.

“Uh, hi, Gus. Nicole.” She has the good grace to look at least mildly sheepish when she catches sight of Nicole’s amused grin and Gus’ best _I-told-you-so_ look on her face.

“What’d I tell you, huh?”

Gus gently snaps the towel at Nicole’s side. It’s a far more playful thwap than the ones Waverly and Wynonna would get as children, sprinting around Shorty’s and causing a general ruckus. Curtis would laugh and scoop Waverly into his lap near the old piano and tickle her until she agreed to sing with him. Once Waverly was calm, Wynonna would soon follow until the next bout of chicanery began.

“Don’t forget what I said,” Gus says seriously as one final reminder of whatever other warnings she might have passed along to the musician.

Nicole, to her credit, nods seriously and replies, “I won’t forget. Guide’s honor.” She even holds up the three-fingered salute.

Gus just rolls her eyes and goes back to work, leaving Waverly and Nicole to stand too far away to reach each other but too close not to want to try. The sounds of the saloon are loud but not yet overly boisterous. There are young, not-quite-legal kids trying to find somebody to buy them a few pints. There’s more contemporary Taylor Swift singing one of her more recent  billboard songs that everybody and their mother knows — except for Nicole and surprisingly, Waverly also.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Nicole finally asks. Her eyes take in the barroom, stopping for a second at the front doors before returning to Waverly.

Waverly tilts her head to one side, thinking. “Somewhere quieter?” Nicole nods. “We don’t really have a coffee shop open this late, but Mama Tate’s is a 24-hour diner and the dinner crowd should be gone by now.”

Nicole smiles that dimpled smile of hers and when she holds out her hand for Waverly to take, it feels a lot like something written in the stars.

 

Fate, destiny, kismet.

 

“Where you go, I go,” Nicole says.

 

Waverly can’t help but admire again how perfectly their hands fit together. She wonders, too, how well everything else might fit because this woman — who might as well be a stranger for as long as she’s known her — is like hearing the most enchanting song for the first time. The sort of song that makes sense of everything in her life until this point, and in a way that she didn’t know she needed. It’s like taking a deep breath of fresh, clean air when all she’s known before was short gasps of something not quite as pure.

They fit together in a way that makes her soul sing.

“To Mama Tate’s we go, then,” she says with her own matching smile.

She shouts a quick, “Bye, Gus!” and hears a fond, _“Go on. Get outta here,”_ in return. If she’s grinning as bright as the full moon above, well, blame it on the music.

Nicole laughs as they step out into the night. The raucous sounds of Shorty’s patrons and thumping bar music is muted by the heavy wooden doors but audible just the same.

“Definitely up there as far as non-shitty bars go. I’ll have to thank the beautiful girl who recommended it.”

Waverly gives her hand a squeeze as they start down the sidewalk towards the diner. “She’ll probably ask you to buy her a cup of coffee. Maybe a piece of pie, too.”

“Pie, huh? What kind of pie? Because cherry pie might be pushing it but I could be persuaded into sharing a slice of apple.”

“She’s amenable to apple pie.”

The softer smile that Nicole gives her is like a magnet. It draws Waverly in until she’s tucked into Nicole’s side and held there. She feels their handhold loosen and starts to protest until that same hand settles on her shoulder, arm draped across her back. It frees up her own arm to snake around Nicole’s waist.

 _God, she’s so soft,_ Waverly thinks to herself. The words escape her mouth, too, and to her mortification she hears herself say, “God, you’re so soft.” She tries to backtrack. “I mean, you’re warm and soft… soft-hearted, and—”

Nicole, blessed and beautiful woman, cuts off her rambling. “You’re something else, Waverly Earp.”

If it’s at all possible, they hold each other even closer as they move in step with one another.

They reach 18th and the diner is lit up with neon in the windows and fluorescent tubes overhead. It’s bright with its red vinyl booths and stools and chrome all around. The old jukebox in the corner resonates with Jerry Lee Lewis. It’s like classic _Americana_ in small town Canada.

 

Waverly loves it.

 

“This is something else, too,” Nicole murmurs as Waverly pulls her into the empty booth closest to the jukebox. “Go Greased Lightning?”

There’s a scowl and a shake of her head before Waverly says, impassioned, “Not a chance. That song is a misogynistic garbage fire. Worse than stupid Brad Paisley.”

Nicole wrinkles her nose at that and Waverly finds herself glad that they’d slid into the booth opposite one another; it makes it that much easier to see every smile, every subtle twitch of Nicole’s lips and the sparkle in her warm, brown eyes.

“Those lyrics are shitty and I can’t believe people even liked those covers,” she grumbles, recalling the gig of the night she met one Waverly Earp. “It’s like waking up in patriarchal bullshit land.”

“Hey, Earp. Earp’s friend.” Hetty Tate appears next to their table as quiet as a mouse but with a hard line to her mouth. “What can I get you tonight?”

“Coffee,” Nicole orders. “And a slice of apple pie if you have it?”

Hetty nods, not bothering to jot down the order. “And for you?”

“Decaf coffee, please.”

The gum in their waitress’ mouth pops as she turns away and wanders back behind the counter. Waverly observes Nicole as she watches Hetty fill two mugs, bark an order to the back, and come away balancing a plate with a slice of pie and two cups of coffee.

“Thanks, Hetty,” Waverly hums, reaching for the off-white mug set in front of her.

Nicole nods. “Thanks,” she says, too.

Hetty bobs her head in acknowledgement before meandering back behind the counter to shout something through the window that’s just mumbled enough that Waverly can’t understand whatever’s said. She disappears into the kitchen.

“Olive Tate owns the diner and Hetty and Herman help run it along with some of the high school kids on in the afternoon once school lets out,” she explains, reaching for the chipped ceramic dish holding sugar and sweetener packets.

“Did you ever work here?” Nicole asks. Her fingers tear at the adhesive wrapper holding the paper napkin around the cheap diner silverware, folding it meticulously into a neat square.

Waverly shakes her head as she dumps one and then two and then three sugars into her coffee. “Just Shorty’s. I bussed tables and washed dishes there until I was old enough to serve alcohol.”

Sometimes Shorty let her mind the taps if Gus wasn’t around. The tips were better behind the bar and it usually kept her out of reach of Purgatory’s handsier drunkards. Gus knew, of course, but never said anything.

Neither Waverly nor Wynonna could ever get anything past her or Curtis. Not then and not now. Waverly avoids the disappointed scowls by doing her best not to deserve them at all. Wynonna gets around the trouble by not coming around much at all. Not unless Gus bribes her with a home-cooked meal and the promise of whiskey to go along with it.

 _No,_ Waverly thinks. _It isn’t like that anymore._

Wynonna moved back to Purgatory. She’s around more often than not lately, case in point being their excursion a few weeks ago and her most recent interruption earlier in the day.

 _Nicole._ Nicole who sits opposite her and is attentive to Waverly, even as she twirls a fork in one hand and fidgets with something else around her neck.

“I do some work for the local historical society, too. Research, really. It isn’t much, but it gives me a chance to look into the Earp family tree and also learn more about Purgatory and what it was like back in Wyatt’s day.” She frowns and the corners of her eyes crinkle. “Sorry. Sometimes I ramble.”

Nicole is quick to set the fork down on the untouched plate of apple pie and to release the whatever it is she was fidgeting with in order to reach forward and wrap her hands around Waverly’s.

“I meant what I said earlier. That if there’s something that you want to share with me, I will happily listen. Especially if it brings a smile to your face like how talking about your work just did.”

There’s sincerity in her voice and in her eyes. It’s clear as day — or maybe the starry night sky. Waverly’s hands are cocooned in warmth and comfort, not because of the cup of coffee her own hands encircle but because this woman before her sets her skin alight and leaves her body thrumming with an energy that makes her feel alive.

 

She thinks that maybe Dolls was right when he used the word _soulmates._

 

“Don’t ever apologize for being you, Waverly Earp, and don’t ever be sorry for loving the things that make you happy.”

Waverly nods, slowly, trying to overcome her own disbelief that a person like Nicole actually exists and is interested in her and what she has to say.

“What makes you happy, Nicole Haught?” she asks after a moment. She tilts her head curiously.

Nicole draws back with a playful grin as she removes her hand’s from Waverly’s. She picks up her abandoned fork and helps herself to a large bite of pie. “Apple pie, for starters,” she says after chewing and swallowing.

Waverly laughs and finds her own utensils. She snags her own bite of pie, saying, “It is very good apple pie.”

“Mhm,” Nicole murmurs. She takes another bite, smaller this time. “Music, of course. I wouldn’t care if I never performed in front of a crowd again, so long as I could still play for myself and for the people I care about.”

Waverly is intrigued. “You don’t care for performing?”

Nicole shrugs. “I don’t really like crowds. We stick to smaller venues because they’re more manageable and with less surprises, even if there’s the occasional brawl.”

“I like that, though,” Waverly admits. “It felt more personal to be that close and to be able to see your passion firsthand.”

Nicole’s lips uptick into a soft smile. “I’m glad you think so, and I’m glad that you were there that night, even though you didn’t seem to want to be.”

Waverly laughs awkwardly and rubs at the back of her neck. “Was I that obvious?”

“It just seemed like you didn’t really know why you were there, but then you helped Jeremy at the bar and something switched and you started to enjoy yourself.”

“A pretty redhead in a Stetson said hello to me and gave me her number. Wouldn’t your night pick up if that happened to you?”

“My night picked up because I finally worked up the courage to say hello to the most gorgeous and sexy woman in the bar.”

A look of surprise flashes across Waverly’s face. The way that Nicole calls her _gorgeous_ and _sexy_ feels so different than the way Champ has ever said it. It feels genuine and without expectations; Champ had always said it when he was trying to initiate sex, and it always made her feel anything but gorgeous and sexy.

 

Fried bologna sandwich versus eight course meal.

 

Waverly shakes her head, dismissing the thought. “You’re something else, Nicole,” she whispers as hazel eyes meet honey brown.

“So are you, Waverly.”

It’s a soft and tender moment. More intimate than could be expected of an early Thursday night in an old diner in Purgatory. They eat pie and sip coffee in comfortable silence, stealing glances and happy grins as Johnny Cash sings about Folsom. Eventually, the jukebox kicks off as the last request queued up comes to an end.

Waverly slides out of the booth, digging for a loonie from the day’s tips to drop into the jukebox. She flips through the available songs, looking for the more contemporary music that she knows Hetty added as soon as she figured out how to work the machine.

There it is. Waverly grins triumphantly as she makes her selection and slips back into the bench across from Nicole.

“What did you choose?” There’s a curious look in her eyes that immediately transforms into something like embarrassment when she hears the opening guitar riff that she knows by heart. She drops her head into her hands, hiding her face as she laughs at the absurdity of a BBD song playing on a jukebox in a diner in small town, Alberta.

“This is one of the first songs we ever recorded,” Nicole says. “It was on a demo that we sent out to some places in Toronto, trying to see if anybody would actually be interested in listening to us play.”

“I have to be honest,” Waverly starts. She picks at the last sliver of crust on the plate with the tines of her fork. There isn’t enough filling left to make it a worthwhile bite, so she ends up crumbling it into smaller flakes instead. “I had never really listened to _Black Badge Division_ until Wynonna and Rosita dragged me out to that bar. I mean, I recognized one of your songs from the radio but I had no idea that you were…”

“Just all right?” Nicole finishes for her with a smirk, recalling Waverly’s words from the night they met in that dark and dingy bar.

Waverly flicks a piece of crust from the plate, hitting Nicole in the shoulder with well-aimed pastry. She holds her hands up in surrender. “It’s okay,” she says. “I know we aren’t for everybody.”

“I was going to say, _‘so extraordinary’_ ,” she murmurs.

There’s that flutter in her chest again. The glint of stars and entire galaxies visible when she looks into Nicole’s eyes.

Waverly breathes. “Have you ever met someone and instantly known in your heart that they meant something to you?”

“I might kinda get that, yeah.” Nicole smiles sheepishly.

Waverly recalls the electricity that sparked between them and the feeling of Nicole’s heart  _thump-thump-thumping_ against the palm of her hand. It’s like she knows Nicole and yet could still spend an entire lifetime getting to know her.

Nicole slips away from the booth this time, searching for something before she drops a coin into the jukebox and presses a couple buttons. The discs change over, sliding into place and the sound of an electric guitar fills the diner that’s near empty save for a small group of high schoolers that seem to be on a double date.

Waverly knows this song and it is not what she expected. She also does not expect for Nicole to hold out her hand, asking silently for a dance like they’re still in some cheesy romantic comedy. There’s a twinkle in her eye and a wide grin splitting her face and Waverly can’t help but laugh. She takes Nicole’s hand with a matching smile, allowing Nicole to pull her from the booth and into a twirl in the narrow space between the tables.

It’s an odd mix of dance moves but Waverly couldn’t care less because when Nicole hugs her close, she sings into her ear. It’s for her and only her.

_“He used to carry his guitar in a gunny sack. Go sit beneath the tree by the railroad track.”_

They’re both acutely aware that they have an audience in the awkward teenagers but they dance anyways — until Chuck Berry’s voice fades out and they’re both out of breath from laughter rather than their spontaneous dance in the middle of Mama Tate’s dining establishment.

Nicole’s hands settle on Waverly’s hips. This isn’t the place for a first kiss; at least, it doesn’t feel like the place for _their_ first kiss.

“Wanna go for a walk?” Waverly asks, already pulling a twenty dollar bill from her pocket.

Nicole tries to stop her from dropping it on the counter. “Let me get this? You treated my friends and I to drinks today.”

Waverly shakes her head, firm in her _no._ “You can get it next time.”

The _next time_ is a given like a fact of life or a universal truth applied to them. There is no question and no surprise at all when it leaves Waverly’s mouth. It’s a promise as sure as the sky is blue. As sure as the fact that Nicole Haught is the most beautiful person that Waverly Earp has ever met.

“Next time,” Nicole agrees.

Waverly leaves the bill on the Formica countertop with a quick shout. “Thanks, Hetty!”

It’s too much. Both of them know it but Waverly is eager to step back out into the night. Before the door to the diner closes behind them, they hear a grumbled, “Why can’t you be romantic like that?”

The air has already cooled considerably and it’s brisk and enlivening and still warm enough that Waverly isn’t yet regretting her denim shorts. She spreads her arms wide, tilts her head back, and breathes.

They’re alone on the sidewalk in front of the diner. The street is quiet. The stars are bright above and Waverly can just barely make out Castor and Pollux against the glare of the moon.

She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. She can feel Nicole standing just behind her, and so she turns languidly. Her heart isn’t racing anymore; it is slow and calm with a steady beat that feels grounded and certain.

“Nicole?” she breathes.

Nicole answers her with an unhurried step to close some of the distance between them. “Waverly?”

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

Nicole is grinning when Waverly kisses her. Her lips are soft and taste of lavender and lemon. Waverly’s hands settle on Nicole’s shoulders, on the back of her neck. She feels hands on her hips and then at the small of her back. Waverly begins to lose track of where she ends and Nicole begins.

It isn’t a scandalous kiss by any means. It isn’t rushed or full of desire. There’s a different sort of wanting with each brush of their lips and each gentle nip and firmer pressure with a give and take. The wanting says something more.

 

_I want to love you, if you’ll let me._

 

Waverly’s hands trail down Nicole’s neck and come to rest against her collarbones. “Wow, um.”

Nicole breathes with her. “Yeah,” she whispers in agreement and understanding. She presses her forehead to Waverly’s and they breathe.

Waverly’s fingers trace along a beaded chain that she hadn’t noticed before. It’s the necklace that kept Nicole’s hands occupied earlier. Up close, she recognizes it for what it is.

“You were in the army?” she asks gently, pulling the I discs from where they’re hidden beneath Nicole’s shirt. She traces the lettering with her thumb, and she’s afraid for a moment that she has overstepped when Nicole takes a step backwards.

“Can we walk and talk?” It isn’t a refusal or a dismissal. She offers her hand to Waverly, and together they begin to walk back towards Main, stopping to sit on a bench not far from the Wainwright.

It takes more than a few seconds of silence before Nicole finds her words, and even then, there’s a frustration that in her eyes that Waverly can already recognize. Her shoulders tense and she stares into the distance with a hardness to her form. It’s a look of self-flagellation.

“Doc, Dolls, and I — we served together. And it isn’t that I don’t want to tell you about what happened over there or that I don’t want you to know that part of me. Please understand that,” her voice cracks.

Waverly’s heart clenches at the sound. She squeezes Nicole’s hand and draws herself even closer, leaning into her side to say, _I’m here._

“I understand, Nicole,” she says aloud because it seems like one of those moments where verbal affirmation is as important as the physical support. She knows Nicole needs to hear the words and she knows that she’s correct when some of the tension leaves the woman’s posture.

“I want you to know me, Waverly, but I still struggle to find the words to talk about it.”

“Nicole,” Waverly murmurs. She says the name in a soft and gentle tone that still somehow carries with it a command for attention. “Nicole, look at me, please?”

Nicole turns and some of the hardness sloughs away.

“You don’t owe me or anybody else, for that matter, an explanation. It’s okay to need to hold onto your feelings and your thoughts. Sometimes we need that to work through them. But don’t let them fester, okay? And know that I’m here for you, as long as you’ll have me.”

Waverly reaches forward, slowly, with the hand that isn’t tangled with Nicole’s. She brushes a thumb across her cheeks and traces her jawline with a caring caress of her fingers.

It’s an intimate moment and perhaps even more meaningful than their earlier kiss.

That doesn’t stop Nicole from leaning into the touch and into the warmth of Waverly’s palm. It doesn’t stop her from leaning forward to meet Waverly’s lips with her own. There’s comfort here, and Nicole knows in her heart that this woman in front of her could be her everything.

Waverly knows this, too. Waverly also thinks that she could spend this lifetime and the next and the next getting to know Nicole and it may still never be enough time together.

They fit. Even with their broken and jagged edges revealed in the slightest, they fit.

 

Waverly thinks about Plato’s _Symposium_ and Aristophanes’ theory on the origins of love. She wonders if this is what it felt like to turn cartwheels on eight limbs and to move forwards and backwards, in sync, and sharing one soul.

 

She wonders if Nicole has ever seen _Hedwig and the Angry Inch._

 

Do indie folk musicians like glam rock musicals?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know it was originally a song by the The Postal Service. Yes, I like that version but it doesn't jive with my whole hipster acoustic aesthetic, you know?

**Author's Note:**

> I've been playing with this AU for about a week now. I really, really wanted to finish it before I started posting but I'm hoping that support from all of you will inspire me to keep going with it. It is going to be a multi-chapter story and I have a very (very) loose idea of some things that I'd like to happen in it.
> 
> I know there are several 'our family of choice au' prompts that I'm still meaning to write, plus the actual multi-chapter story that I've been working on for over a month now... but this crawled into my brain and wouldn't leave me alone (around the time that I wrote the 80's mixtape au tribute fic). So here we are. With newt trying to juggle three or four different Wynonna Earp universes in her head. So it goes, eh?
> 
> Bare with me, please? I have no idea where or when this song is actually going to end.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated but never required.


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